


can't turn me down

by psikeval



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comeplay, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet on a dance floor, and it's all downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't turn me down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



 

For several reasons, loud clubs are not natural environments for Alexander Hamilton. For one thing, it’s almost impossible to win arguments when nobody can hear you. He’s also an awful dancer, having learned to move his hips and nothing else, so mostly he just bops around doing a lot of unnecessary shimmying while Laurens laughs fondly (bless him) and Lafayette and Mulligan try to look like they’re not here with, and possibly have never even met, Alexander.

But if there’s one thing he’s good at, its picking fights with DJs. Or anybody, really.

“This song is terrible,” he bellows over the lyrics, leaning halfway over the turntable. He’d swear he can feel the sound reverberating in his face. Hamilton might go deaf from this, but he’ll go deaf fighting injustice and awful song choices. It’s possible he’s had a couple shots already. “Terrible!” he yells again, for emphasis.

The DJ looks up, makes a quizzical, annoyed face, and flips him off.

“ _Songs about hating parties do not make people want to party!”_ The guy’s put his headphones on now and is steadfastly ignoring him, which means Alexander is mostly just shouting his grievances into the void, but he’s never considered that much of an obstacle before. Why start now? _“And who the hell can dance to this?_ ”

“Certainly not you,” says a much closer voice, just behind him.

Before Hamilton can turn around properly, he’s dragged away from the booth—not roughly, exactly, but with sufficient strength and insistence that he hasn’t got much choice in the matter—and deposited against the wall, face to face with the asshole who decided to push him around.

“Hey,” he snaps, and then he gets a look at the guy and says, in a very different tone, “hey,” because he might be annoyed but he’s not _dead_. Hamilton’s as weak as the next person when it comes to pretty hair and long legs and muscled arms and a really gorgeous bare throat over sharp collarbones. Possibly weaker than the next person, if he’s feeling honest. And he’s definitely feeling _something._

“Hamilton,” says the guy—the total asshole, it must be remembered—possibly the single hottest person Alexander’s ever seen. He’s raising a beautiful eyebrow. “You do have a big mouth, don’t you.”

This seems like a bit of a pot/kettle situation, because this guy’s lips are—something. Full and soft-looking, smirking at him. Hamilton kind of wants to bite that mouth, a lot.

Only then does it occur to him— _he knew my name, how does he know my name?_ —that he’s seen this face before, in pictures that didn’t nearly do him justice. Pictures next to bylines of a useless op-ed writer that Hamilton fucking hates on principle. One, at least. He’s got a lot of them. Principles, and hate, and therefore people he hates. It all follows naturally.

“You’re Thomas Jefferson.” It sounds more disappointed than it should, considering the simmering fountain of rage that Alexander prides himself on being able to access at a moment’s notice.

“Mm.” He pushes a knee between Hamilton’s legs and forces him on tiptoe to make up for the difference in their height. Jefferson rolls his whole body, grinding his thigh against Hamilton to the rhythm of this stupid house music, perfectly timed. It’s annoying how coordinated he is. It’s annoying how _everything_ he is. He brushes his knuckles over Hamilton’s throat and tilts up his chin until it’s the slightest bit uncomfortable, ’til he feels stretched out and displayed on the wall and those fucking lips are right against his ear. “You’re gonna follow me.”

It’s arrogant, presumptuous and unbearable, just to name the first few words that come to mind. He's also getting distinctly uncomfortable in these stupid tight pants, and trying to move between Jefferson’s thigh and the wall isn’t helping matters one bit.

So instead of _no_ , Hamilton just says, “Where?”

Jefferson’s knuckles press a little harder against his throat and Hamilton shivers. He can _feel_ it when Jefferson’s mouth curves into a smile.

He doesn’t answer, just walks away and lets Hamilton scurry awkwardly after him, into the dark back hallway, where it becomes clear their destination is the vacant men’s room. Hamilton wants to say something cutting about the classy location Jefferson’s picked out but doesn’t trust himself not to sound turned on by it. He _can_ keep his mouth shut once in a while.

Once inside, he lasts about three seconds before unzipping his jeans and shoving them down enough to get his dick out, because there’s pride and then there’s the pain of an erection in too-small skinny jeans. It’s possible his groan of relief is a little excessive. It’s quieter in here, so he can hear Jefferson’s low, mocking chuckle perfectly.

“Excited, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

Jefferson just smirks, tosses his hair back and looks disgustingly good doing it. “Bend over the sink.”

It’s incredibly irritating, being ordered around like this. Alexander focuses on that, rather than the fact that he’s obeying without a word, letting Jefferson crowd up behind him.

He pushes Hamilton’s pants further down, around his knees, and bends down a bit—slips his cock between Hamilton’s thighs, brushing back and forth over the sensitive skin and making him startle. He thinks it’s an accident at first but Jefferson stays there, hands braced on either side of Hamilton, hunched down to make up for the difference in their height, and he tries a few more thrusts between Hamilton’s legs before he makes a short, aggravated noise.

“This isn’t gonna work. Get up there.”

“What?”

In the mirror he sees Jefferson roll his eyes. Then he spins Hamilton around and lifts him up, ignoring Alexander’s aggrieved yelp when his skin touches the cold, water-splashed and no doubt unsanitary countertop. It’s _uncomfortable_ , dammit. This is such a bad decision.

Jefferson leaves him bare-assed on the sink and strips off his pants and shoes, kicking them aside in a heap—which Hamilton means to complain about, but Jefferson is on him already, shoving Hamilton’s knees up toward his chest and getting a grip on the outside of his thighs, pushing them together. Jefferson’s fingertips press hard into what little spare soft flesh he has, short fingernails digging mercilessly into Hamilton’s thighs; that’s definitely going to bruise.

He lets Hamilton fidget for a minute, rubbing his cock along the seam of his thighs, the spreads his knees just enough that Jefferson can push between his legs, groaning at the tight fit. His cock is hot and velvet-smooth against the skin.

The first snap of his hips leaves Hamilton scrambling for balance, one hand ending up on the sink and the other on the wall behind him. After that all he can do is hold on, legs held together by those long-fingered hands, pressing in, keeping him in place.

He squirms a bit in Jefferson’s unyielding grip, just to see if he can move—he can’t—and watches the head of Jefferson's cock, pushed through his thighs, swollen thick and leaking precome that gets smeared on Hamilton’s skin, easing the next shove of his hips. His mouth waters just seeing it, feeling it rub his thighs slick and raw and aching. He wants to lick at Jefferson’s cock until there’s come on his tongue, on his face.

More than that, he wants to come, just to be touched, just _once_. It’d be so easy, like this, for Jefferson to get them both off—he could probably wrap those fingers all the way around both of them and jack them off, slick with precome—Hamilton moans because he needs it, because he knows Jefferson won’t let him have it. His legs are damp with sweat where they’ve been pressed together, and it’s only making him easier, wet and warm for Jefferson’s cock.

He tries to move, but Jefferson ignores him. He’s fucking between Hamilton’s thighs faster, with enough force to jar him, hands tightening even further until Hamilton whines, his untouched dick twitching uselessly on his belly—then Jefferson is spreading his legs a few precious inches, rutting along every inch of soft sensitive skin

He loosens his grip on Hamilton’s thighs just for this, to come in messy spurts between his legs, skin already so slippery with all the sweat and precome that Jefferson’s come trickles down in sticky rivulets, dripping onto Hamilton’s dick.

Jefferson is breathless, grinning, pushing back his hair one-handed. All the worst of the mess is on Hamilton but he still wipes his dick clean on the outside of Hamilton’s thigh before dropping his legs, finally letting his feet hit the floor again.

“I’m gonna count to ten and then I’m leaving,” he announces after buckling his belt, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed, blatantly watching Hamilton. “And I don’t feel like locking the door. So if you wanted to get off or clean yourself up, now’s the time.”

“ _What_ —”

“One,” says Jefferson, unperturbed.

“So you’re just going to—”

“Two. And yeah,” he says, looking down at the mess of Hamilton’s thighs and his bare hard cock, which twitches hopefully under his gaze. Jefferson smirks. “So get going.”

It takes a count of three to finally spur Hamilton into action, fisting his cock and trying to hold back an uncomfortably wild groan at finally, _finally_ being touched, even if he’s the one who has to do it. (“Four.”) Just jerking off won’t be enough; his time is almost halfway up already and Hamilton knows— he knows what he has to do. He presses his legs together, gasping and fucking desperately into his fist at the feeling of all that wet, sore skin, flushed hot and covered in a sticky mess of come.

It’s showing too much of his hand and Hamilton knows it, but he has to let Jefferson see him like this, smearing come between his thighs and shaking, knees weak with how much it fucking turns him on, he’d let Jefferson come on him again right _now_ , the way it felt, how it still feels, warm and sticky-wet on his skin, he’d— he’d—

He’s too loud when he comes. He always is, and he knows it, even as he braces his unsteady weight on one hand and jerks at his cock with the other, shouting and shaking and trying not to collapse, unable to hold back the slutty little moans as he wrings out the last of it, shuddering. There’s come all over his fingers, some on the floor and the sink and a bit on his shirt, and Jefferson is smirking as he drawls out “seven.”

It’s a race now, hurriedly wetting paper towels and swiping at his thighs, hissing and swearing under his breath as he tries to rub quickly over sensitive skin, to scrub at the places Jefferson’s come has started to dry and try not to flinch when it chafes, or when eight and nine pass by and he’s still not clean but it'll have to do. Hamilton snatches his jeans from the floor and starts wriggling into them, ignoring his own pained, breathy noises as rough skintight denim is dragged over every sensitive spot, every single fresh bruise.

“Ten,” says Jefferson, already moving—and it’s not like Hamilton thought he _wouldn’t_ , exactly, but he doesn’t even fucking hesitate, just walks right out without a single backward glance.

He lets the door swing wide open behind him, and as promised it doesn’t drift quite shut, an inch or so ajar while Hamilton desperately yanks his pants the last few inches, wincing at the sting and the soreness already spreading in his thighs. He still can’t force them all the way up on his hips, past the damp and sticky patches still left on his legs, but he's past out of time. There’s someone in the hall.

By the time the door swings open completely, his shirt is pulled over his hips and splashed clean, and Hamilton manages to look like a person just washing his hands. He tells himself this, somewhat desperately, while avoiding eye contact and scuttling out into sweet safe chaos.

Halfway to the bar Alexander suddenly thinks of his hair, yanks it loose and reties it as quickly as possible while he walks. Hopefully there’s nothing else he’s missed. It can’t have been that long since he followed Jefferson in, they were—efficient.

“Alexander!” Laurens calls out, popping up on his left with a wave.

His friends are clustered around a blessedly dark table. Hamilton makes a beeline for them, tries not to wince when he sits, and is greeted by a friendly nod from Mulligan. “There you are.”

“And no, we don’t want to know,” says Lafayette preemptively, even while absently patting his shoulder and buying them all another round of drinks. It sort of ruins the theory that nobody will know, but (Hamilton jumps explanatory mental tracks rather frantically, face burning hot) they’re his friends. Of course they noticed something. He did, after all, disappear for a while.

“Know what?” he asks with as much fake innocence as he can conjure up. Since Hamilton’s still a sweaty mess and close to vibrating out of his skin after all the adrenaline from that race to get his clothes on, it’s possible there’s no point in lying. Very, very possible.

God, he really needs this liquor.

He downs his whole drink before the waitress can even turn to leave, and while Mulligan tries to politely convey ‘ _you might just wanna keep ’em coming for him,’_ Alexander wonders what it’s like to be normal about your mistakes. To not look back only after the fact and realize why what you did was an awful idea; to not be willing—fuck, _eager—_ to immediately do it again.

Hamilton’s jeans are horribly uncomfortable now, damp in places and drying stuck to his skin in others, tacky with sweat around his knees. The seams chafe painfully right over the worst, most sensitive spots inside his thighs, where Jefferson—

He can’t think about it. Not here. He should just go home and take a proper shower, scrub clean with warm water and soap and press into the bruises with his fingernails, stroke gently over the raw skin and take his dick in hand, slowly this time, remembering—

“Alexander?” Lafayette pokes his temple. “Alexander.”

“Uh yes? Yeah. What?”

Some pained looks are exchanged, but they mostly leave him alone after that. It’s probably for the best.

 


End file.
